In The Hills As Soldiers And As Shepherds
by Hyzenthlay Dolarhyde
Summary: Sharpe: The harshness of war does not stop for something like Christmas. Nor then, will the magic of Christmas stop for something like war. Written for azarias for the Yuletide Treasure 2007 challenge.


The alleyways of Almagra were, as far as Patrick Harper was concerned, no different and no more welcoming than any of the other towns they marched through and barracked in over the past two months. True, the taverns and houses the army were occupying were warmer and more comfortable against the December winds than the campsites, but their presence was barely tolerated by the Portuguese and innkeepers and whores aside, the locals were no more welcoming than the twisted maze of streets and their stench of horses, blood and stale urine and the intermittent sound of vomiting from those who'd drunk more than they'd been able to hold.

"It doesn't do the lads any good, being cooped up like this either," Pat mused out loud, shifting his rifle against his arm and taking a swig of brandy from a bottle he held in his other hand. "They deserve a warm bed and a break from the French every now and then, but all this waiting, it just sets them on edge and they just end up fighting each other."

The sound of further retching came from the small alcove behind Pat, and changed the track of his musings.

"I told you, sir, stick to the wine," Pat said, shaking his head. "Ale round here's little more than piss at the best of times and if-"

"Shut up, Pat," Richard growled as he staggered to his feet and leant against the wall, his breath heavy, ragged and reeking.

"Brandy, sir?" Pat asked, cheerfully offering the bottle, which Richard waved away as he tried to stand up straight and walk into the street. Pat shouldered his rifle and put the brandy back in his jacket pocket, going after Richard and casually steering him back in the opposite direction. "This way, sir... Let's get you to bed," he said, leading him along the dark street back to the old granary that was serving as the Light Company's quarters. He glanced up at the sound of hoof beats and gently pulled Richard to the side of the street to let the rider past.

"Pleasant evening, isn't it" the rider said as he reigned his horse in to a stop.

"Major Hogan, sir," Pat and Richard said, pulling themselves to attention, something that took considerably more effort for Richard.

"Captain Sharpe, by god, I almost didn't realise that was you," Hogan said. "I was just thinking to myself, 'I wonder how Richard's doing?' Not healthy for a man like you, Richard, cooped up like this. Said the same thing to Wellington only this morning," he added.

"Sir..." Richard said, murmured, his brow furrowing slightly in suspicion.

"'The men are restless' I told him," Hogan said, casually searching through his jacket pockets and seemingly oblivious to the cold night chill, the fact that it was three o'clock in the morning, or the fact that Richard could barely stand. "I said to him 'Sir Arthur, Sharpe's more restless most- men like him always are'." Hogan paused as he pulled out his small tin of snuff. "So naturally, he says to me 'Hogan, we don't want men like Sharpe wasted,' - his exact words – 'Hogan,' he says, 'you find Sharpe something to do."

Pat glanced to the side as he felt Richard tense and straighten up, his expression still tense and suspicious. The chance to do something other than sit around trying to keep a group of increasingly bored and decreasingly sober soldiers was more than welcome, but on the other hand, anything that Hogan asked them to do was generally vastly more dangerous and complicated than 'Shoot the French', and things had a tendency of going very, very badly.

"Thought you'd be pleased," Hogan said cheerfully, in response to Richard's silence. "Headquarters, Nine on the dot tomorrow morning. Good evening, gentlemen!"

Pat and Richard watched as Hogan spurred the horse off down the street, staying silent until he'd turned the corner.

"Crafty Irish bastard," Richard swore, staggering dangerously as he attempted to stalk off angrily.

"That he is, sir," Pat agreed, catching Richard as he stumbled against him. "But we'll worry about him in the morning." He patted Richard on the shoulder, leading him back to the granary and to sleep.

--

"Miss Teresa, Ma'am..." Patrick smiled as held held the horse's reign while Teresa dismounted.

"Patrick," Teresa said, with a polite smile. "Where is Richard?"

"Just preparing the men, ma'am," Pat nodded to where a small company of red coats were being paraded for inspection.

Teresa frowned to herself as she pulled a bag down from her saddle. "The army are not advancing..."

"Just a wee errand for Major Hogan, Ma'am..." Pat said, helping her with the horse. "Mission of diplomacy, so I'm told."

"Diplomacy?" Teresa said, the faintest hint of amusement on her features. "They are sending Richard?"

"I think we're more of an escort," Pat said. He looked over his shoulder and nodded back to the inspection parade and a mounted redcoat officer who was observing the men. "Making sure doesn't get lost."

Teresa wrinkled her nose. "Major Dunsfold," she scoffed. "They would be better sending just Richard." She watched Dunsfold for a moment. "You are going to meet with the Spanish colonel at Ameiro, yes?"

Pat hesitated briefly. "I wouldn't know, ma'am..."

Teresa pursed her lips. "I will speak to Hogan. There are still many French troops north of here. My people can help."

"It would be an honour to have you march with us, Miss Teresa" Pat said, bowing his head slightly and smiling at her.

Teresa smiled in return. "I will go to Hogan now. Please, tell Richard I am here."

"Of course," Patrick said, taking the horse's reigns from her and watching as she headed off towards the town's square, her eyes fixed on Richard as she went.

--

The march to Ameiro was uneventful, if not especially pleasant. A combination of the cold and the roving bands of local guerrillas had kept the French from attempting to move any closer to the lines of Torres Vedra, but the countryside was barren and the rocky hills did little to shelter the troops from the icy winds and snows. By the time they'd reached the small wooded valley where they were due to meet the Spanish envoy, the men were tired and sullen, longing for the comforts of Almagra's public houses. Only the Chosen Men were not complaining – while Teresa marched with them Richard was in good humour, and it seemed to rub off on the men.

"We will be back soon, I promise," Teresa said, reaching down to kiss Richard. "The Colonel says they passed French men on their way down – we will make sure they do not come down this way."

"You think you'll be gone long?" Richard said, letting his hand rest on Teresa's thigh.

"It is Christmas in two weeks – I will be back by then."

Richard grinned, lightly squeezing her thigh and pulling her down for another kiss. "Just see that you are."

Teresa laughed lightly, smiling at him and gently waving before riding off with the rest of her men.

--

Teresa was true to her word; barely four days after setting out to scout for the French, the guerrillas had returned to the campsite, only to find the place deserted. The ground still showed signs of hoof prints and hastily covered campfires, but there was no sign of Sharpe, the chosen men or Dunsfold and his company of redcoats. Nor were there signs of a skirmish, or even tracks to indicate that they'd marched on. It was as if the men had disappeared entirely.

One of her comrades pulled up beside her, asking whether they were to check the area, or assume the talks with the Spanish had concluded earlier than planned for whatever reason and head straight back to Almagra.

"We will find Colonel Vasquez," Teresa said. "The English will be camped with their allies, or they will have returned. Either way, there's nothing for us here," She called out, ordering the men to head back up north, but despite what she'd said, she couldn't help but feel that finding Richard would be as simple as finding Vasquez.

The guerrillas moved slowly back north, careful to check for signs of the Spanish or English troops as well as keeping tabs on the occasional French patrols. It wasn't until the afternoon of the second day that they managed to find anything; a freshly dug grave sited just off of the track, in a small clearing surrounded by dense thicket. One of the guerrillas dismounted to go check, Teresa watching him anxiously and he looked for some kind of marking to indicate who was buried there.

"Steady..." she muttered quietly to her horse as the creature started nervously. She looked around discreetly as she soothed the horse, her other hand moving towards the holster of her pistol and closing around the handle.

"Es inglés!" the man checking the grave called back, holding up the fallen piece of wood which had served as a gravestone.

Teresa nodded, carefully drawing her pistol. "We are allies!" She called out in English towards the thicket, holding her breath as her grip tightened around the pistol.

There was a frantic scurry and drawing of weapons as the sound of movement came from the thicket, and despite Teresa's declaration both the English and Spanish met with their weapons leveled at each other. Teresa snapped at her men in Spanish, before looking at the English soldiers.

"Miss Teresa..."

Teresa spun around as Pat appeared from behind her. She frowned at his torn uniform and the dried blood that was still caked to his forehead. She looked around at the others; Hagman was stood awkwardly on one leg which had been crudely bandaged, but the rest of the chosen men seemed to have scraped by with a small number of cuts and powder burns. However, there could not have been more than a handful of redcoats stood in the clearing, and while a few looked simply disheveled, some of them were noticeably injured. But that was not the most worrying thing...

"Where is Richard?" Teresa snapped, looking straight at Pat, but unable to notice the wave of silent tension that ran through the English soldiers. "Where is he?!"

"The French, ma'am..." Pat said, his voice weary. "We reached Colonel Vasquez the night after you marched north. The French reached us the night after that..."

Teresa's expression went to stone. "Where is Richard?" she asked quietly.

"We think the French are holding him prisoner," One of the redcoats said, stepping forward. "Lieutenant Beech, at your service, ma'am." He withered slightly under Teresa's impatient glare. "Vasquez was killed, but Sergeant McAllister-" Beech gestured to the grave, "- claimed that the French took both Major Dunsfold and Captain Sharpe prisoner along with the soldiers stood on guard duty. Unfortunately, the cold, you see... he was badly injured."

Teresa stared at Beech, who shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what else he could say.

"You are returning to Almagra?" One of the Spaniards beside Teresa asked in heavily accented English

"We're looking for the French. Ma'am," Pat said to Teresa, the men muttering in grim agreement.

"Then we will search with you," the Spaniard said, giving Pat an informal salute before snapping orders at the others, watching as Teresa spurred her horse into a gallop, riding out of the clearing without a further word to anyone.

--

The guerrilla patrols came and went as the remnants of the English company traveled north. Neither of them seemed able to find any sign of the French force that had attacked Vasquez's camp. They were aware of how further from the rest of the army they were traveling, and just how low there rations were getting and although no one dared to say it out loud, it was becoming clear to all of them that they wouldn't be able to search for much longer and they'd have to return to Almagra without Sharpe, or they wouldn't return at all.

After the eighth day of searching, the guerrilla Captain who had spoken to Beech and Patrick went to Teresa, telling her that while he and his men would keep up patrols in the area as possible, the English could not stay – not only were they running low on their own supplies, but even with the hard ground it was getting difficult to disguise the fact that a band of soldiers were trampling around the countryside behind enemy lines and that it wouldn't be long before the French patrols picked up their trail, if they hadn't already. Teresa had argued fiercely, but no matter how much she hated it, she knew the Captain was right, and she had no right to endanger so many on a search which was looking increasingly futile.

Resigned, she told Pat that she would lead the chosen men back as far as Ameiro, where she would start her search anew.

"The lads don't mind staying..." Pat said, watching her carefully though the flames of the small campfire.

"They are good men. But they cannot stay," Teresa said, staring down at her hands, her voice heavy.

Pat sighed, sitting in silence with Teresa, the soft sound of Hagman's singing drifting over them along with the crackling of the fire.

"It is Christmas Eve tomorrow..." Teresa said, so quietly that at first Pat wasn't sure he'd heard her.

"Aye, so it is..." he replied softly.

There was another long silence. "I told Richard I would return by Christmas..." she said, still staring down at her hands.

Pat looked over at her, smiling sadly. "Aye. And you did."

Teresa glanced up. "Patrick..." she said, aware of how awkward her halting attempts at conversation must sound. "Do you-"

"I've always liked this time of year," Patrick said, as if he hadn't heard her, his voice clearer and warmer than it had been. "Of course, it's different at home, with family, but you know you remember growing up with stories of shepherds and wise men and babies and that never leaves. Always there at Christmas. A time for miracles..." he trailed off and looked at her pointedly. "You know, there was this one story me mam used to tell us..."

Teresa smiled gratefully and sank back as she half-listened to Patrick's anecdote, pulling her coat tightly around herself and silently thanking him for giving her answers to questions she hadn't wanted to ask.

--

Copper idly tossed the coin in his hand into the air, catching it lazily as he shifted against the tree he'd been resting against. The sky had lightened to grey, and while it was not the most impressive sunrise in the world ever, Cooper was grateful for the night to be over. He'd be able to go kick Perkins awake to take over guard duty and catch himself an hour's kip before they started marching again. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, swearing to himself as pins and needles cramped his leg up and completely missing the noise of someone approaching until they were practically on top of him. Instinctively, Cooper lashed out with the butt of his rifle, catching his attacker and knocking him to the floor.

"Oh bloody hell..." Cooper muttered, staring down at the prone form and taking in the tattered remains of a dark green jacket. "SARGE!"

--

"How is he, sarge?" Perkins asked, hovering anxiously at the door to the tent, the rest of the chosen men only a few steps behind him.

"He'll live," Pat said, glancing back through the canvas to where Hagman was wrapping Richard up in all the spare blankets they'd been able to gather. "Just. But he needs a surgeon."

"Needs a bloody miracle, more like," Cooper scoffed. "You saw the state those frogs have left him!"

"And you really helped with that, didn't you Cooper?" Pat said sharply, glaring down.

"Please..." Teresa said from the entrance of the tent. "He is safe now. Safe..." She looked at the men, all of whom fidgeted awkwardly. Smiling sadly, she went back in to help Hagman.

"We can secure him to Miss Teresa's horse," Harris said, breaking the silence. "It won't be comfortable, but the sooner we get Captain Sharpe back the better. It'll snow soon."

Pat nodded, sending them off to get ready to move. He watched them for a moment, glancing back at the tent and crossing himself. "Weren't sure you'd pull through there..." he muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes towards the heavens.

--

The day's march was slow and tiring. As Harris had predicted, the snow had come, not only making the march harder but leaving a glaring obvious trail behind them. Despite Hagman's best efforts to keep their spirits up, the memory of McAllister succumbing to death after he'd nearly survived was still fresh in their minds and the tension cut though them even more than the cold.

It was evening when Cooper and Harris returned from their brief scouting mission.

"Guess what, sarge?" Cooper said, grinning to himself.

"Boney's decided to become a priest and we can all go home?"

"Not quite, sarge," Cooper said, still grinning. "Found an abandoned inn. It's in pieces though, but-"

"But what, Cooper?" Pat said impatiently.

"But the stable's still there, sarge. Got a manger and everything. Seems appropriate, don't you think?"

"You know, I never thought you were a religious man Cooper..."

Cooper chuckled to himself. "I'm not, sarge. But a sign's a sign to me, and I'll take what I can get."

"That's what got you here in the first place." Pat patted Cooper on the soldier, heading back to tell Teresa they'd found somewhere to rest.

The Inn was indeed in ruins, and the stable was not much better. The four walls still stood though, and as Cooper had said, sometimes you just had to take what you could get. The small stock of straw was damp and had the sickly sweet smell of rot, but it was free of rats and with enough blankets on it they managed to make Richard comfortable. He'd not yet woken properly from the feverish sleep he'd fallen into, so no one yet knew how he'd escaped from the French, or for how long he'd been staggering barely conscious around the countryside. He seemed stable though, and Hagman seemed positive that as long as they kept him warm, watered and fed he'd pull though. The chosen men took turns on guard duty, both outside the inn and alongside Teresa by Richard's side as she stayed with him well into the night.

Pat took over from Harris shortly before sunrise, the sky thinning to grey once again. Leaning against the crumbling edges of the stone doorway, he folded his arms against and idly wondered to himself if praying for a bottle of brandy to come stumbling through the trees was perhaps pushing the mercy of the good Lord a bit too far.

"Patrick?"

"Ma'am..." Pat turned to look at Teresa, who'd appeared beside him, cleaning blood off of her hands with a rag.

"I wanted to say thank you. For staying. If you'd returned to Almagra..."

"You don't need to think me, ma'am.." Pat said with a reassuring smile.

Teresa smiled tightly to herself. "No. But Richard does. I don't think he will say it though."

Pat shifted against the wall. "Ah, if Captain Sharpe had to say thank you every time I came to his rescue, I'd be damn sick of hearing it."

Teresa laughed; a warm genuine laugh that lit her face up and seemed to erase the look oh torment that had haunted her for the past week. She took a deep breath and stopped laughing, giving Pat one of her more usual small smiles. "Merry Christmas, Patrick," she said, gently squeezing his arm.

"Merry Christmas, Miss Teresa."


End file.
